I was five or six years old in the mid-1940s, in the week before Thanksgiving. We knew the holiday was a time for giving thanks, and the star of the dinner table was usually poultry; most often turkey. For our family that year, however, the menu would not include turkey or any bird of its ilk.
Times were tough, and turkeys were a luxury we could not afford. Mom said we'd have to work with what we had and let the spirit of the holiday make up for it. And yet, despite our humble circumstance---or perhaps because of it---I remember that Thanksgiving very well.
A few days before the holiday, our family's dinner expectations took a sudden, unexpected turn. One of my father's fellow railroad workers called our house to say a plump Thanksgiving bird would be personally delivered to our door, as his gift to our family. My mother was excited at the prospect of the fine feast she could make for her family, and she began to plan creative trimmings for the grand occasion.
When the bird arrived, it was magnificent indeed. As my mother went to the doorstep to receive the bird, I heard her sharp intake of breath before she extended greetings to our benefactor and thanked him for his generous donation of the fine LIVE goose!
That big bird honk-honk-honked and marched around and preened its snowy feathers for us, and we children were delighted. As far as WE could see, we had just been gifted with our own surprise---a big pet goose!
Mom hurriedly secured our new pet in the basement, and for reasons we couldn't figure out, she seemed very nervous as she waited for my father's return from work. She had told us it would be Dad's job to deal with the "goose problem," though what that problem could be, we couldn't fathom.
If a homecoming Dad was surprised to find the prime feature of our Thanksgiving dinner was a big live bird, he didn't show it. He took my mother's hand and, out of range of our curious ears, he told her something in a tone so low we couldn't hear.
It seemed to reassure my mother; in later years, we'd learn that he'd told our Mom she would not be personally responsible for rendering that great bird lifeless, nor would he. He would discreetly engage a local farmer to perform that task and make it ready for her culinary talents.
We kids began to talk about the prospects for our future with our fine new pet. We opened the basement door often, peeking at the bird and marvelling at its size; it seemed larger than WE were! Could it fly, we wondered? Would it need training like a dog? Would we have to build a "goose house" for it?...
A day or two later, when we peeked at the goose before breakfast, we discovered it had disappeared! Who had left the door ajar and allowed it to escape? Would we ever see it again? Would it find its way back to us?...
Later, we didn't realize it was our goose the farmer brought to our house on Thanksgiving eve---dead, bled, and well-hidden in a heavy sack which Mom whisked quickly out of sight.
When we saw what we thought was a turkey in our refrigerator, we decided it was the Thanksgiving bird promised by Dad's friend, who must have delivered it in the night while we kids were asleep.
On Thanksgiving morning, my mother rose early to begin the dinner preparations. Soon the comforting aromas of this holiday permeated every corner of our house. At dinner, my father carefully transported the big cooked bird to the table. He led the blessing, adding with what was probably a slip of the tongue: "We also thank you, Lord, for the good friend whose generosity put this handsome GOOSE upon our holiday table."
The happy child-chatter stopped abruptly; this was our goose!! It really was a beauty on our table; like something from a holiday magazine cover. But if Mom had created a masterpiece, its magnificence was lost on us. Here sat our goose before us, and it was being CARVED!
We had MET this goose, and all too suddenly we understood a bit about the process that had brought him to our table. We kids just sat there; didn't make a sound; didn't raise our plates to share the meat when it was carved; couldn't even summon up the courage to face the goose, let alone our parents.
"Well," my father said at last, "We can eat around it." That didn't help a bit, and then my father seemed to understand his children could not attempt to eat a thing in that bird's presence.
Dad rose and took the bird to the kitchen; where it went from there, we children couldn't say; we never saw it again. But our parents were never of a mind---nor could they afford---to throw good food away, and in later years we came to realize we had enjoyed the goose in my mother's hearty post-Thanksgiving stews and soups.
Our response to Mom's heroic work in cooking up that grand Thanksgiving dinner must have disappointed her, but in hindsight, it seems to me she might have actually been prepared for our reaction. She promptly left the dining room and returned with a meat loaf, piping hot and seemingly from nowhere. It was delicious, the best we'd ever had, and we told her so and meant it.
When we addressed dessert, we saw that Mom had topped our pies with extra ice cream, a rare luxury for us. The goose was soon forgotten.
It was a fine Thanksgiving, after all, for all of us---except the goose!
